Now I Leave You With My Fondest Memory
by Counter Spark
Summary: The deep wound was weeping blood down Draco's side. "I need you to take this to Hermione Granger." He cupped the back of the bird's soft head and rested his own forehead against it. Saying goodbye. "Now go," he whispered. Post-war, twenty years later. DHr.
1. The Bottle

**Title: Now I Leave You With My Fondest Memory **

**Summary:** The deep wound was weeping blood down Draco's side. "I need you to take this to Hermione Granger." He cupped the back of the bird's soft head and rested his own forehead against it. Saying goodbye. "Now go," he whispered. Post-war, twenty years later. DHr.

**Disclaimer: **Shocking, but I am NOT JK Rowling! I know, technically she might have time between best-selling novels to squeeze in a little DHr fic (and we all know, deep down in her darkest, most-lusty depths she ships them!), but I guess you just have to trust me when I say that I am not her, and that I did not create this world or these characters. Bummer, dude.

**A/N: **Okay, I am really pumped about this one. I have a plan, and I swear to you that this will be the one that I will finally finish! So here's what I'm thinking-so long as people are reading this and liking it, I can write a chapter a week. Maybe even faster than that, because I am really looking forward to write this one. I know the summary is vague, but here's a few things you can expect from this fic: flashbacks to Hogwarts, Draco being cute and fatherly, Draco being an ass just like he's supposed to be, Hermione being a bossy know-it-all likes she's supposed to be, flashy gore, and uh, romance. That too.

Anyway, enough talk. I hope you enjoy! 

* * *

_This is NOT pathetic_, he thought to himself with a sharp little smirk. Of course, what he was doing was _very_ pathetic, and he knew that. It was a Saturday night, and he was a 39-year-old man guzzling down a bottle of wine alone. At first, he'd bothered with the pretense of getting a dusty glass out of the cupboard...but when he grabbed the bottle of blood-red wine from the cellars, he knew there'd be no need. Straight from the bottle was fine. More efficient, actually.

"Oh, shut up," he muttered to himself before swallowing down another burning mouthful. This was a sad picture. No denying it. Once upon a time, Malfoy Manor had been a happier place. Ten years ago, visitors to the mansion (and there hadn't been many, save for his wife's family) would've oohed and awed over the impeccably cared-for artwork and tapestries-the looming grandiosity of it all. The high ceilings, the glittering windows that stretched from floor to ceiling. Also, there was the pretty picture of himself and his wife, a snobby-but-tolerable woman named Astoria Greengrass. The little blond boy running around was quite heartwarming too, occasionally stopping to tug on his father's pant legs and beg for sweets.

To say that he was happy would've been too simple, but there were things about his life that Draco had enjoyed. His marriage was mostly for show-they'd admittedly never loved each other-but he did trust and at times enjoy Astoria's companionship. She felt more like a good friend than anything. And Scorpius...Draco loved the boy fiercely. Still did.

But he was at school, sorted into Slytherin House just as everyone had expected. Astoria, bless the woman, actually fell in love with some other man, and Draco understood her need to leave. He didn't even get angry when he found out she'd been screwing the guy, some nobody who worked at the Muggle Liason Office. She agreed to stay present in Scorpius's life-she loved the boy too-and beyond that, Draco couldn't really ask her for more. They exchanged letters often, most of hers expressing concern that he didn't 'get out enough' and that he was going to 'waste away' in that mansion of his.

So there was really only the wine. And his memories. He liked to visit his Penseive on the attic floor often.

"Now THAT is really sad," he said out loud to himself, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. The bottle was already half-empty now, and the wine was starting to work its magic. He was entering that wonderful lightheaded state. You could be the most pathetic man on the continent (Draco he usually thought he was) and still feel alright if you were mind-numbingly drunk.

His plans for the night included finishing this bottle, probably finishing another one, and working on a new draft of The Letter. It was his obsession. How many rolls of parchment had he gone through over the years, eventually balling each letter up and throwing it into the fire? It never sounded _right_. And above all, he sounded desperate.

No, someday he'd get it down perfectly. The tone, the words...she would read it, probably bawl her eyes out, and come running through those great doors of his, cloak billowing out behind her, hair as bushy and wild as ever.

Yes. That bit of self-delusion he HAD to believe, because if he didn't? Well...then, save for his son's brief visits during the year, he really would have nothing.

Draco staggered out of the leather chair by the fireplace and began walking down the huge, marble-lined hallway that ran through the length of the mansion. His bedroom was at the end and to the right...there he would find what he needed. Parchment, a quill. Maybe if he laid on his bed and let his thoughts wander, he'd think of the perfect words to write. Oftentimes, he thought his letters either came out sounding too sappy and pathetic or too rigid and formal. He wanted to strike that perfect medium, because, after all, she was the "Brightest Witch of Her Age"...she would analyze and critique his letter to death, the insufferable know-it-all. The thought made him laugh, and he took another swig of wine.

He was about to turn into his bedroom, smile still on his face, when he heard a noise drifting down the length of the hallway. At first it was a small noise-a door creaking open, maybe-but then he heard other things. Voices. Several voices, male and female. Not even bothering to whisper, these hooligans.

_But are they really hooligans?_ the sober part of his mind asked in a quiet voice. _Could hooligans really break through all that complicated spell-work you placed on the front gates?_

"Well, what the fuck," he whispered, ducking down to place his bottle of wine on the floor. He reached into the pocket of his robe (emerald, of course) and brought out his wand. There was a small tremor in his hand, but mostly he felt alright. It probably had a lot to do with the alcohol pumping through his system.

He waited until the band of men and women appeared at the head of the hallway. And then his heart sunk.

_Oh, hell. I'm really screwed_. Then:_ I never even got to send her my letter! SHIT!_

They were dressed in Death Eater garb, all of them. Long black cloaks, silver masks. The War had been fought and lost twenty years ago, but The Dark Lord still had his host of loyal followers. Draco thought the whole thing was incredibly stupid, but it didn't surprise him that some idiots still clung to the idea that The Dark Lord would return. First of all, if He didn't return, who would bring about the Muggle and Muggle-born scourge that these simple-minded fools all clearly wanted? Secondly, if Harry Potter and his band of ragtag friends really_ did_ defeat the darkest wizard of all time, what did that say for their loyalty? Their family history? Draco could sympathize a little bit-the history books wouldn't be too kind to the Malfoys-but there came a time when you simply had to accept defeat.

"You lot? Really?" Draco said irritably, rolling his gray eyes to the ceiling. "He's dead! What more do you want? Merlin and Aggripa, I've seen more brains in Blast-Ended Skrewts!" He felt himself swaying. The wine was working its magic alright. "Anyway. Yeah. Get the fuck out of my house."

He smirked at himself for that one. _Artfully do_ne, he thought. He was still probably going to die, but at least he might make one or two of them feel like a jackass before making his grand exit.

"Draco Malfoy," one of them said, stepping to the head of the pack. Draco counted eight in total. This one was the tallest, and she spoke in a slow drawl that almost rivaled his own.

"Yes?"

The female Death Eater lowered her hood and removed her mask. This was no one he'd ever seen before. He'd figured that the old magic bloodlines wouldn't involve themselves with such nonsense as this. This gang was probably made up of bitter half-bloods and psychopathic Muggle-borns who hated their parents, he thought. And this woman looked psychopathic. Beautiful and dark in a way that reminded him of his fucked-up Aunt Bella-and probably just as scattered in the sanity department.

"What a sad sight you are!" she said with a broken trill of laughter. "We figured we'd find you here alone. We were hoping your woman and child would be here, but I guess we'll just have to settle for killing you."

"That's presumptuous, don't you think?" he asked, raising his wand and backing up into the proper dueling stance. Despite his drunkenness, he thought he mastered his movements quite well. "It's been awhile since I've dueled anyone, but it might be fun to get some practice in. Plus, I can rid the world of a few more simpletons."

They all laughed at that. Draco smirk went even wider. _I'm a regular comedian, aren't I?_

"What's your name, Twitchy?"

As if in response, she blinked both of her eyes and crinkled her nose in what appeared to be a genuine nervous tick. "It's Lora. Anyway, we're going to kill you. Care to know why?"

Draco shrugged. "Sure."

"We've read the accounts of Death Eaters who faced trial at the Ministry of Magic. Many of them said that your cunt mother lied about Harry Potter being dead...she _lied _to the Dark Lord that night, and that's why..." she trailed off and shook her head in anger.

"Why what? He lost? He died? Are you admitting he's dead now! Merlin's beard, it's a breakthrough!" Then the smile fell from from his face. "And don't call my mother a cunt."

"Oh, but she was one. It's a shame she died, and so young. Muggle disease, wasn't it? Cancer?" Lora tittered out a little note of laughter, and like the simple-minded idiots that they were, the rest of her companions chuckled along with her. Draco cringed. The mimicry reminded him of Crabbe and Goyle.

"I wouldn't call it a Muggle disease considering witches and wizards die from it all the time. Are you telling me _you lot _couldn't die of cancer? Hell, half of you are probably Muggle-borns anyway."

Lora's dark eyes widened as though he'd struck her. "Shut up!"

"Ha! Hit a nerve, have I?" _Maybe I don't have anything to be afraid of, _he thought, drawing in a deep breath. None of them seemed too bright. It took intelligence to become skilled with a wand. Of course, there was still the fact that they'd broken through the front gates to get here, but he pushed that bit of knowledge to the back of his mind. Yes, best to think positive. Eight was a large number of people to take on alone, but if he was faced against eight idiots, maybe he had a chance.

"Oh, enough chit-chat. You're pissing me off. The point of it is, your mother was a cunt and a traitor, and since we can't kill her and your father's half-mad at St. Mungo's, you're the next best thing! Plus, we've heard stories that you were working with Potter and the Order during the time of the War."

"Oh, really?" Draco snorted. The idea that Potter would accept him into his golden group of Gryffindors was too funny to take seriously.

"So, when the Dark Lord returns, he'll be very pleased to know that we've killed you." Lora smiled with her teeth, and Draco could see the shadow of the pretty girl she'd probably been before losing her mind. "That's what we do...we find the darkest roots from the Dark Lord's past and we tear them out, so when he returns, the way will be made perfect for him."

Draco let out a long sigh. "Well alright, then. Have we gotten to the part where you try to kill me?"

As if in response, one of the hooded figures that stood at Lora's left shoulder raised their wand in the air and screamed, "CRUCIO!"

Draco deflected the red jet of light easily. "Hey big guy, word of advice? If you're gonna kill me, you need to move a little faster than that."

That's when the real battle started. Jets of red and blue came speeding towards him-far too many to deflect. He dove to the right and hit the floor, his chest slamming against the marble hard enough to knock the wind out of him.

Still, he didn't have to speak to cast a spell. Gasping for air, he pointed his wand and thought _STUPEFY! _One of the hooded figures was propelled into the air. Like a dementor, they flew and flew, black cloak billowing, until they hit his chandelier and brought the giant crystal centerpiece crashing to the floor. While the Death Eaters-in-denial were busy ducking away from the falling chandelier, Draco leapt to his feet and began to run.

He slammed his bedroom door behind him and raced to the end of the room, bypassing his bed, the roaring fireplace, and nearly tripping over the ancient emerald-silver rug. He didn't even know where he was planning to go until he reached the door beside his wardrobe. Then he realized it, and the fact that his legs had carried him here made perfect sense.

He was heading for the attic.

He stepped into the darkness and shut the door behind him at the very same moment that he heard the door to his bedroom being blown off its hinges. _Lumos Maxima! _the thought, and the dark passageway was bathed in white light. Draco took one moment to look up at the long set of stone steps before racing up them.

Halfway up, lungs aching, heart pounding, he heard the door below him burst open.

"SECTUMSEMPRA!" a gruff voice shouted.

He glanced down just in time to see the curse flying at him-it was far too late to deflect at this point. The hot knife plunged deep into his left side and slashed from chest to hip. Immediately, he felt the spill of warm blood sheeting over his skin. Running down his legs and soaking his nice sheepskin slippers.

"Orbus!" Draco shouted, and the hooded figure melted into the floor, as though falling straight through. As soon as the man's shoulders reached the stone, he stopped sinking; a pretty good obstacle for anyone else who wanted to chase him up this staircase, Draco thought. Just for good measure, he stunned the bastard too before turning his attention back to the steps.

"Shit," he breathed, moving much slower now. His left side was screaming. He didn't have time to look, but it sure felt like a lot of blood. He could feel it squelching beneath his soaked slipper, probably leaving a grisly trail.

He heard someone crashing into the man he'd left at the foot of the steps. While this hooded figure was busy cursing and groping for his fallen wand, Draco thought _sectumsempra _and gave this Death Eater their own slash across the side. They howled in pain. It might've been cruel under normal circumstances, but Draco was getting angry. These fools had broken into his house, insulted his dead mother, and now it was looking as though he might never reach the attic. Thanks to them, he'd never get to write his letter; he was going to have to settle for second best, it seemed.

If only he could reach the attic.

Whoever entered next did it stealthily, because Draco didn't hear it. He only knew their presence by the sensation of their spell slamming into his back. It was like being hit by a massive sledgehammer between the shoulder blades, and his cheek stuck the sharp edge of the next step. He swallowed blood and reached up with one hand, reduced to crawling now.

With the other arm, he pointed his wand and stunned this other faceless Death Eater. Now there was a whole pile of them lying at the of the steps. Draco might've felt pride over his skills as a wizard if he wasn't so busy bleeding to death.

After what felt like minutes of agonizing pain, Draco felt his fingers curl over the lip of the top step. He hauled himself over it and tumbled into the tiny attic room, sprawled on his back and gasping for breath. When he felt blood, warm and sickly-smelling spreading out beneath his back, he knew he was in real trouble.

"Oooh, Draco!" Lora's voice called from below. It echoed up the staircase and into the small, stone-walled room. Then she cackled. Merlin, she reminded him of his Aunt Bella.

_No time now, _he thought, propping himself up on his hands and knees and crawling toward the end of the room. There was a square window there, casting a square of moonlight over the segment of floor that the blood-soaked Draco Malfoy was currently crawling over. There was the outline of an owl, too, in this window-an owl that squawked noisily at the sight of its master.

"Evening, 'Braxis," Malfoy said pleasantly enough. He dragged himself forward another foot and grimaced. The bird was named after his grandfather Abraxis, which was fitting considering how similar the two were. Generally snobbish, silent unless driven to speak.

_And seeing me dragging my bloody carcass across the floor sure is giving him a lot to talk about, _Draco thought as the bird fluttered its wings and squawked some more.

"I'm going to need you to do me a favor, old friend." There was a small table beside the bird's perch scattered with a few random items. A spool of ribbon, owl droppings...a particularly good draft of The Letter that Draco hadn't found the heart to throw into the fire.

_Still, I'm not sending it, _he told himself before he allowed himself to consider it. It might've been his best draft, but it wasn't good enough.

His bloody hand enclosed itself around the last item on this table. A small glass bottle. Draco looked up at the bird's silhouette, silent tears of pain standing out in his gray eyes.

"To me, 'Braxis," he said.

The bird left his perch and fluttered down to the floor beside his owner. Then Abraxis did something very uncharacteristic-he cooed lowly and nuzzled Draco's cheek with his black, feathery head.

With the hand that wasn't holding the bottle, Draco patted the bird's head lovingly. The blood this left on his feathers glittered in the moonlight. "Thank you. You've been a good bird, 'Braxis. Now, if it's alright, I have one last task for you."

Draco held up the bottle. Its airy contents swirled around slowly, illuminating his face with silvery dancing light. The owl's eyes widened at the sight of it, as if entranced.

"I need you to take this to Hermione Granger. Here." He reached up for the table and brought back a strand of satin ribbon. As he set himself to tying the bottle around the bird's leg, he heard the woman's cackles coming closer. "She lives in Surrey. Little cottage down the street from Blaise. It's by a stream. You'll know it when you see it."

Draco looked into the owl's yellow eyes, huge and round like billiard balls. It cooed lowly again and ducked its head. Caught by a sudden wave of emotion, Draco cupped the back of the bird's soft head and rested his own forehead against it. Saying goodbye.

"Now go," he whispered, and the bird sprang up and soared out of the window.

He had just enough time to back himself up against the wall and point his wand at the opening to the steps. As he waited for the crazy woman to appear, he suddenly felt afraid. Not of dying, strangely enough. He wondered now if he'd just made a huge mistake. Would it have been wiser just to take those memories with him to the grave? What would be gained now in sharing them with Granger? They would only make her sad.

But it was too late now. He felt his back slide an inch down the wall. Black spots were scattered across his vision.

When the woman appeared in the doorway, shrieking with joy like an evil witch in a Muggle cartoon, Draco thought, STUPEFY! Before the black spots in his vision melted together and thrust him fully into darkness, Draco saw another jet of red light rushing to meet his own.

* * *

**A/N: **Gasp! Wah happened? How will Hermione react when she receives the bottle? What's IN the bottle? Guess you'll have to find out in next week's chapter!

Anyway, I hate to be whiny and needy, but if you liked this first chapter and you want to see more, could you leave me a review? Unless I receive feedback for these things, it feels like I'm just talking to myself...and I do that enough already, hahaha *twitch*. Interacting is half the fun on this website IMO, so tell me what you think! And no, this is not just my roundabout way of begging for praise...I like honest critique and suggestions too! Bring it on!

:)


	2. The Memory

Hermione was in the middle of a very good book when she heard the owl tapping its beak against her windowpane. She wasn't exactly sure how long the bird had been there-when she opened the window to let it in, it fussed and nipped at her arm as though she'd done something to personally piss it off.

"What's _your_ problem?" she asked, trying to shake the thing off of her arm. The beast had decided to perch there, taking little nips at her shoulder and glaring at her with its huge yellow eyes. "I'll have you know I was in the middle of a very good book."

Hermione couldn't read the thoughts of animals, obviously, but if she had to take her best guess at what this owl was thinking, it would have been: _do you think I give a shit?_

"What's this?" she asked, cupping her hand around the glass bottle tied to the bird's leg. The owl merely glared at her.

Of course, she didn't need the bird to answer that question for her. She knew what the bottle contained immediately. Only memories looked like that-memories that you could draw from your brain like a strand of spun silk.

Her first thought was Ron, but this wasn't Ron's bird. Ever since their separation, her old friend and confidante had been trying any number of ways to win her back. Poetry, gifts...he'd even written her a song. It'd only been a few weeks ago. She'd opened up the folded piece of parchment (pink, reeking of bad perfume), and just like a Howler the letter formed its own mouth and began singing the love song that Ronald Weasley had penned for her.

Hermione almost would've preferred a Howler, though. The man had never been able to carry a tune. Still, she wasn't heartless...it was sweet, undeniably sweet, and for a moment she'd actually considered reconciling with him. But, in the end-when she devoted her mind fully to the problem and thought it out logically-she realized what a mistake that would be.

"Merlin, did you hurt yourself?" Hermione asked the owl, noticing the blood smeared across the surface of the bottle. As if in response, it ducked its head and showed her the shiny blood on its feathers. Hermione tentatively touched her fingers to the bird's head, expecting it to wince, but the owl only looked up at her with that same glassy glare. "Okay. Guess not."

This was all very weird, she reasoned, but Hermione remained calm. For all she knew, this bird was half-crazy (which was easy to believe considering how mean it was), and the bottle wasn't meant for her at all.

Still...might as well see what kind of memories were swirling around in there?

Hermione would've poured the contents of the bottle into her Pensieve regardless-her curiosity had never been something easily overcome-but her own boredom was yet another motivation to investigate. She loved this cottage, and the reading nook by the window, and the way that the sunlight glittered off of the lake in her backyard so beautifully, but _Merlin_ was it hard to fill her days with activities. Back in her prime, Hermione Granger could've kept her nose buried in a book from sunrise to sunset, only stopping to eat a hurried snack or run to the loo, but 39-year-old Hermione Granger could only read so long before her eyes started giving her trouble.

Besides, she had so many distractions...so many other things to stare off into space and think about. The divorce, for one. Her children. The way Hugo and Rose glared at her, assuming that her decision to break up their family had been an easy one. But leaving Ron _hadn't_ been easy. Not at all. Mostly because she still loved him. But not in that way. _Never _in that way, when she actually sat down to think about it.

And when she started on down that path, it was almost impossible to stop. She would certainly come to the end of it depressed, wondering what the hell was wrong with her-why she couldn't fall in love with anyone the way she was clearly supposed to. _Maybe I'm just broken, _she would think, and then there would be nothing to keep the sadness at bay but lots of wine and smutty books. It was her life's great shame, this sudden interest of hers, but leafing through these stories of sexy Scotsmen and British lords calmed her. Most of these books were absurd and painfully vapid, but she couldn't stop reading them. They made life seem so easy...they made falling in love look about as simple as fixing a bologna sandwich.

So these were the two options that faced her: get tipsy and finish her trashy book or pour this bottle of memories into her Pensieve. If it turned out to be something highly secretive and not meant for her, oh well...it wasn't her fault the bird came to the wrong house!

She untied the silk ribbon from the owl's foot and stared at the bottle's beautiful contents, eager now to find out what sort of memories were swirling around in there. For all she knew, these could be highly secretive memories-something stolen from a top Ministry official's office! _Or,_ _wait, _she thought, eyes drifting to the book she'd left on the windowsill. On the cover was a shirtless Italian man, wind blowing his dark hair away away from his temples. _Maybe this is something secret and naughty...some hot love story with attractive people and easily-solved problems._

_That would be nice_, Hermione thought with a smirk. She noticed the owl's eyes still on her, staring as though it were waiting for something. "Anything I can do for you?" she asked.

It just kept on staring, the blood on its feathers glowing in the sunlight.

"Well, alright then. You just stay as long as you want."

She kept the Pensieve in her bedroom, which was no larger than the closet she had in the house she'd shared with Ron. Her room was tiny but cozy, and the fact that it was windowless and dark usually meant that she could sleep like a stone until the late afternoon sometimes. A candle glowed on her bedside table, bewitched to make the room smell like her favorite scent-old parchment. The stray cat she'd found lapping up water from the lake in her backyard was curled up at the foot of four-poster bed. Bootstraps, she called him, although Crookshanks II might've been more fitting. Bootstraps was like her old beloved cat in nearly every way, save for the patch of red fur missing on its hindquarters. A bad fight with a raccoon or something, she'd guessed.

It was a simple stone basin. Her own memories swirled around inside, blue and beautiful like the memories that swirled inside this bottle. Truthfully, though, she didn't spend much time reliving the past. There had been good times of course...receiving her first letter from Hogwarts, meeting Harry and Ron on the train, the birth of her two children. But there were bad memories, too-ones she didn't see the point of drawing out of her brain for posterity's sake. Why relive Bellatrix LeStrange torturing her at Malfoy Manor? Or the sight of Lupin and Tonks lying dead in a pile of rubble?

She opened the bottle and poured its contents into the stone basin. They glowed brightly, illuminating her face and her nest of bushy hair in blue light. She heard a flutter of wings and a hiss behind her-the bird had taken a spot on her bedpost, hovering over Bootstraps like an eager predator.

"Now, you two," she said, rolling her eyes. This was a line she'd said more often in her old life, running around the house and making sure her two redheaded children didn't kill each other. Thinking about this made her heart hurt with longing. Suddenly, she couldn't wait to be immersed in someone else's life. It seemed so very appealing. For this evening, she would drown herself in a stranger's memories-a stranger's problems-and forget her own.

Hermione leaned forward until her nose broke through the surface of the swirling substance. Then, she was falling.

* * *

_Draco Malfoy? _she thought, flabbergasted, watching the blond boy study his reflection in the mirror. _What?_

She was back at Hogwarts. Either fifth or sixth year, it must have been, because he was adjusting his shiny Prefect's badge with what looked like an abnormal amount of attention. He looked like a wreck. His blond hair was not in its usual slicked-back state, instead sticking up in all directions like he'd slept on it badly.

_Harry hair, _she thought.

There were dark circles under his eyes, almost an opaque shade of purple, and he was muttering to himself like a crazy person.

"This is any normal day," he said quietly, gray eyes bright and intense. "You are any normal student. You are going to Potions class. While there, you will _learn..._you'll do what you always do. Make fun of Weasley, suck up to Snape. Yeah, you know the drill."

Hermione was watching all this from the center of Malfoy's dorm room. She looked down and could only see a faint shimmer of her own body. Having looked through a Pensieve before, she was very familiar with the procedure. Fairly soon, as this world became more comfortable to her, the feeling of her own body would fade away. So would her thoughts. Eventually, as she observed these memories through the Pensieve, her own presence here would be forgotten, and she would simply observe these events as though they were nothing more than an interesting movie.

Only when the memories were over would she be able to think about them as Hermione Granger, 39-year-old singleton. Which is why she took advantage now of the opportunity to think _what the hell is this? Why in Merlin's beard am I looking at _Draco Malfoy's_ memories?_

She looked around his dormitory (there was enough green and silver to make her nauseous), making sure there was no one else there. It was empty. No one here but a muttering Draco Malfoy and the shimmer of her own fleeting consciousness. This early in the memory, she still had the chance to exit the show. A part of her was very tempted. How interesting could this really be?

If this was his sixth-year-and she guessed it was, based on his disheveled state-then Hermione already knew how this story ended. She'd probably watch him sneak off to the Room of Requirement and tamper with that awful Vanishing Cabinet from Borgin and Burkes. That, or run to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom for a brief therapy session. What was the point of watching it all through Malfoy's perspective? Although she'd despised the prat for most of her life, she figured it would all just be very depressing. Especially if the epilogue to this particular tale was Dumbledore's death.

"Anyway, yeah, everything is fine," Draco assured himself, fidgeting with his Prefect's badge. For a moment, he stopped moving and just stared at his own reflection intently...squinting as though trying to intimidate himself. "You are _going_ to do this." He took a deep breath. "Mum and Dad are _not _going to die because of you."

And then, lastly: "The Mudblood is _not _onto you, so stop thinking she is."

Before the shimmer of her own body flitted out of existence, Hermione's last thought was _what?_

* * *

**A/N: **Bwaaaaahhht? Anyway, hope you guys are liking this one. I put in the little detail about losing your own consciousness in the Pensieve so that I can just write the rest of Draco's memory like a straight third-person narrated story.

Thanks to the following people for reviewing my last chapter: **Ara Goddess of the Broken,** **fiddlesticks, ravenclawgirl, **and the mysterious **Guest! **I appreciate it!

I'm excited to get to this next chunk of the story, so yahoo for me. It's going to be fun to write. I only wish there were some way to work in Abraxis the Owl into the past. He's such an asshole, I love him!

R & R! I plan to have the next chapter out sometime next week.


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